within my chest lives a dormant fireball of passion. it is my chest, not my spine, that keeps my body standing up straight. i have a chest, a blank page to write on, and it is improper to return it blank. every time I breathe in, I breathe in smoke and clouds and colour and music, a slow burning feeling starting from my throat that moves straight into the heart of my chest, as does the pain every day leaves me with.
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